


offing

by poisonrationality



Category: Topp Dogg (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonrationality/pseuds/poisonrationality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some graves you just can't dig yourself out of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

“Unbeing dead isn't being alive.”

― _E.E. Cummings_

Somewhere between a moan and a sigh, a boy thinks about that pair of _Jeffrey Campbells_ he saw on Amazon. Somewhere between a poignant release and the slap of money on an end table, when he rolls onto his back and into his musty covers, the boy choreographs to the sound of his own labored breathing.

Somewhere, in an alleyway among the garbage, flames illuminate the features of a young boy. The flames tickle his toes, intoxicate his eyes. He moves oily through the dark and his footsteps leave ashes on grease-soaked cardboard. He aches for something greater, and greater do his fires grow.

Somewhere, cries echo throughout the night and the smell of gasoline permeates the air.


	2. druxy

Druxy

( _adj_.) something whole on the outside,

but rotten inside

 

_The sky was clear that day. Rays of sun peeked out through billowing curtains and illuminated a small classroom. There were blankets strewn about, coloring books opened halfway and scribbled in messily. Hansol sat atop his blanket, colored his nails black with a sharpie. He heard the soft click of a door opening, the click click of heels on linoleum._

 

_When the teacher pulled Hansol aside, face wrought with grief, she kneeled. She took his small hands in hers and the words that came out of her mouth were merely a blur. He managed to catch words like “parents” and “accident” but it didn't click until he arrived at the hospital. They ushered him in, patted him on the shoulder as if it meant something. In those white, pristine chairs he sat and tried not to notice the way the receptionist glanced at him with pity. For six hours, he curled up in those chairs, a dying bird in its cage._

 

_He was twelve._

 

_Hanbin, his older brother, was the only one left to take care of him. His grandparents were too elderly to take care of a child, his aunt too broke. Hanbin was a wealthy doctor. Married, had three kids, a happy family._

 

_That was a fact that he would remind Hansol of constantly. Whether he was cowering in the corner, nursing a sprained wrist or facing the mirror, applying foundation to garish cuts. His brother was there, an ominous shadow looming above him._

 

_The blinds were always drawn in his room._

 

_Instead of sitting with the family at dinner, he would take a plate up to his room. Rather than sit in the living room and watch television, he made frequent library visits and brought home fashion magazines and books about butterflies. He even had an adjacent bathroom, so he didn't have to go downstairs. It helped, when the bruises couldn't be covered by makeup._

 

_Hansol got used to the feeling of fading bruises and swollen ribs after a while. As long as he stayed out of the way, no one would touch him. People would stare, in school, but nobody would ever say anything. He was okay._

 

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Hansol's untimely end came when Social Services knocked on his door.

 

He's in the middle of covering up a particularly nasty bruise. Hues of yellow and purple catch in the light whenever he moves his head and when the knock at the downstairs door echoes throughout the house, he tenses. His fingertips still upon his swollen cheekbone.

 

Muffled voices can be heard through the door, barely recognizable besides their faint hint of desperation. The old wood of the stairs creaks, a warning. He knew what to expect when social services show up at your house, but still his heart begins to quicken. He puts his makeup away hastily, eyeing himself in the mirror to make sure the bruise was invisible. It was obviously pointless though, if social services were here, they knew.

That thought throws Hansol into a quiet frenzy, a mix of feelings beaten and threatened into him for the past four years. Every nightmare, every half-awake scream and stifled whimper, all of it. It was all coming true.

 

They knew. They probably knew everything. His fingers tremble on the edge of the sink and he watches the color seep from his skin through the mirror. There's no going back after this, after they take him away. Not that he particularly wants to. He won't miss the constant overwhelming fear, the weight of his brother's boot pushing his head to the dirt. He'll be free of that thousand ton burden, however, he'll never see this house again. His bed, his magazines, his _life_. It'll be gone by the time they drag him out of that door.

 

And in the way the world works, the door slams open.

 

 

 


End file.
